


what would it be like with you around?

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Almost Caught, Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kissing, M/M, POV Steve Harrington
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:27:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21738337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Five times Billy and Steve almost get caught, and one time they don't.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 10
Kudos: 254





	what would it be like with you around?

一

The bass pounds through the walls and the floor by the time Steve sinks to his knees, lips swollen and tender, his entire body a live wire. He crowds Billy into the sink counter before he can think twice, the alcohol in his system doing wonders for his absolute lack of inhibition. Sober-him would’ve never got this far, would’ve panicked the second Billy shoved him into the corner of a dark hallway and kissed him, knee slid between his thighs. Sober-him would’ve spouted off something crude and ran, and spent the rest of the night reevaluating his life choices.

Sober-him isn’t here, though. Right now, Steve is well on his way to drunk, and Billy’s cock is blood-warm and trapped behind leather, and Billy’s hand is in his hair, rucking up his meticulous work with a single stroke. “Get it out,” Billy sighs, urging Steve’s lips closer. Steve’s mouth waters as he sucks along the hard ridge of it, sloppy wet where he sucks, just to hear Billy moan, feel his hips buck. Steve holds him still, teases him, gets Billy groaning and white knuckling the countertop.

Laughter dwindles to hushed whispers as people walk past, checking doorknobs on their way. Billy locks the door as an afterthought, then pets through Steve’s hair, tongue between his teeth. “C’mon, baby,” Billy says and cups the back of Steve’s neck, nails digging in. “Drooling for it, aren’t you?”

 _Yes_ , Steve wants to say, delirious with lust. He plays for indifferent and mouths kisses to the front of Billy’s pants, skin-tight and leaving nothing to the imagination. Fingers tucked into Billy’s belt loop, Steve reaches down to palm himself, his moan barely a hitch of breath. Billy tugs his hair tighter, right on the edge of painful.

“Let me,” Steve says—practically pants, if he were really honest with himself—and pins Billy’s hips to the counter before yanking his fly down.

It shouldn’t shock him how easily Billy allows this, allows Steve into his space, but it does. For all his bravado and posturing, Billy melts when Steve touches him, pulls his cock free and strokes, gathering up the wetness that’s been beading there for too long. He jerks Billy’s pants down to just below his ass, giving him room, giving him a view.

In hindsight, Steve knows he met Billy only a week ago, give or take a day. All he knows about Billy is his name and his violence on the basketball court, and the way his hair curls after he towels it dry. The dimples above his ass, the swell of his cock when it’s soft. Here, pretenses thrown to the wayside, Steve sees him for what he is: a creature of touch, of lust, confined within skin and wanting, begging for whatever attention he’s afforded.

And Steve rewards him with the best gift of all—his mouth.

Fantasies have nothing on the way Billy feels in his mouth, just thick enough to stretch his lips but plenty long. Only a week, but some of the girls are already talking, and Steve sees the appeal, the pure warmth of his skin, the way his hips writhe. His hands wander, from Steve’s hair to his shoulders and back again, tugging, urging—begging. Steve couldn’t deny him if he tried.

“Fuck,” Billy grunts. Looking up, Steve marvels at the furrow of his brow, lips parted, chest flushed and heaving. Briefly, he wonders if all the other girls get to see this side of Billy, or if Steve is the only one, on his knees to worship the Adonis, doing with him what he wishes. “Fuck, baby, that mouth of yours…”

Steve can’t help but smile around him, humming when he takes Billy further, to the back of his throat. What he can’t swallow, he wraps his hand around, and gives as good as he knows how. A thrill shoots down his spine when Billy’s hips flex, breath catching in his throat. Both hands tug at Steve’s hair, guiding him, and Steve steels himself, ready for—

“Billy,” Tommy slurs from the other side of the door. The knob jerks, violent, and Steve chokes and pulls off, adrenaline kicking in through the haze of liquor. “Billy, know you’re in there, c’mon out. Cindy’s losin’ her mind over you.”

Hissing, Billy bites his fist; Steve stares at his own cock, still tenting his jeans and refusing to wilt, even a little. _Come on, you’re better than this_. “Kinda busy in here,” Billy manages. Precome drips from his cock; Steve has half the mind to lap it away. Now if only Tommy would _leave_. “Get another room.”

“Come on,” Tommy sing-songs. He thumps into the door, clearly out of his mind. He might be hallucinating, but Steve swears he can smell Tommy’s breath from here. “You got a girl in there?”

“Yeah, I got one,” Billy snarls. Rather than back off, Billy tugs Steve forward, and against his better instincts, Steve kisses the head of his cock, tonguing the slit. Precome floods his senses, heady and thick, but not nearly as cloying as when Billy speaks. “Pretty one too, head full of hair and these lips, _God_ —”

“Billy,” Tommy groans again, trying the knob. “You let me watch last time, c’mon—”

That, out of everything else, startles Steve back into sobriety, but not enough to back away, to his horror. Sober him wants this— _weird_. “Dude, seriously?” he hisses, to Billy’s nonchalant shrug. “He’s a total skeeve, you let him watch you get off?”

“He’s kinky,” Billy says, less a whisper and more of an accusation. “Not my fault he likes watching someone fuck his girl.”

Oh God. This is too much information all at once, and more than he ever wanted to know about Tommy, and Carol, for that matter. “Get rid of him, or I’m out,” Steve says and stands, palm to Billy’s chest. Staring into Billy’s eyes is like looking into the core of a star, too bright, searing—Steve will never forget his face, for as long as he lives. “Like fuck am I letting him in here.”

“You think I want him here?” Billy laughs, drowned out by Tommy howling for him, probably trying to pick the lock with a toothpick. “Get lost, Thomas. Just tell Cindy to wear a blindfold or some shit.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but Tommy eventually leaves in a huff. The bass resumes, reverberating through the walls, pounding in Steve’s ears. Billy’s smile overshadows it all, and Billy tugs him into a kiss, tongue chasing the taste of himself on Steve’s lips, the roof of his mouth. “Fuck,” Steve moans, drawn out and higher pitched than he’ll ever admit to, when Billy pops the button to his jeans, pulling Steve’s cock free from his briefs.

Billy’s hand is warm, just like the rest of him, his grip a vice where he brings them together. “Know why they call you the king,” he smirks against Steve’s lips. Sultry, he licks a stripe across Steve’s upper lip before kissing him again. Steve swallows his moan and takes a fistful of Billy’s hair, tugging until Billy groans, cock twitching against his own.

If anything, Steve will blame the alcohol for how fast he comes after that, Billy’s hand pumping their cocks, Billy’s hand in his hair, Billy’s mouth sucking a mottled bruise to his throat. Panting, he clings to whatever he can find—Billy’s hair, namely, as well as his hip—as he comes down, twitching through the aftershocks while Billy uses his spend to slick himself, his hand lightning-quick. He comes with little more than a whisper, eyelids fluttering, lips parted.

The music dies down between songs, giving Steve ample time to listen to Billy breathe, sucking in air. Steve joins in, still clinging to Billy’s curls, foreheads pressed together. It might as well be the most intimate moment in his life, staring into the deep blue of another boy’s eyes, losing himself in what his story must be, in his warmth, golden skin against his own.

 _It’s too good to be true_ , Steve thinks. Counts the number of times Billy blinks, how he licks his lips. Gradually, the flush abates, and Billy comes back to himself, vulnerability replaced with pride. Everything is an act, and Billy’s the star around which Steve orbits, along with everyone else in Hawkins High.

But Billy let him in. Out of everyone else, Billy chose him, at least for tonight.

“You’re a good lay,” Billy says, wipes his dirtied hand on Steve’s black tee. “Should do this again sometime, yeah?”

Panicked and wanting, Steve nods, watches Billy pull his pants back up, tucking his cock back inside. He slinks off with a just-fucked look on his face, leather jacket slouched, and leaves Steve in the bathroom, head cloudy, but with one thought in his mind.

 _I need to see him again_.

二

Maybe a year ago, Steve would’ve peacocked a bit more, strutting around school with his latest squeeze on his arm. A year ago, he was all unblemished skin with an even cockier attitude, with a penchant for revenge that he never really understood until a plate collided with his skull and a set of fists knocked him out cold.

Times change, situations reverse. Now Steve has a gash in his hairline and bruises around his eyes, and a tremor in his hands every time Billy walks within five feet of him. They haven’t spoken since what Steve has coined The Incident, but he can’t shake that night from his mind: the bloodlust in Billy’s eyes, the sparks of pain every time Billy’s fists collided with his face, and the eventual quiet, the skittering, the—

He doesn’t want to remember. Yet, he can’t help but think about it, every time Billy gets close, too close. It doesn’t help they’re both forced to attend the same practices, shoved into the same bus for games in neighboring towns. Half of the time, they end up on the same bench, in the same seat, because the universe is determined to spite him.

Because there’s no way in the world that Steve would even want to talk to Billy again, to look at him, and yet.

 _Yet_.

Steve’s shoulder twinges under the shower spray, no matter how hard he rubs the muscle, how many hot compresses he tapes to his skin just to ease the tension. Locker doors slam; water patters against the tile floor, dripping down the drain. For a long while, Steve just stands there, hair matted to his face, the world black behind his eyelids. All he knows is the warmth of water, the bitter sting of his split lip, where he bit it on the way down after Chad elbowed him hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

He doesn’t remember much after that. Seeing Billy above him, trying to help him up, rekindled a primal fear in his gut that left him dry heaving on the court. Trapped, cornered, left for dead. It took two of his classmates to knock some sense into him. Coach benched Billy—Steve hid in the locker room, under the shower spray, and stayed.

The door closes once again, slamming shut. Steve shivers and runs his hands through his hair, just for something to do. He needs to leave and head home, back to his empty house and even more pathetic life, but he can’t move his feet, can’t do much else other than stand there.

A hand touches his shoulder; Steve swings without thinking, bare hand colliding with the side of someone’s face—Billy’s face, shocked but not at all surprised. A red mark blooms on his cheek, highlighting the bruising between his eyes, one of them blood red from a burst capillary. They both must look horrible. Whatever Billy feels, Steve more than doubles it. Part of his jaw is still numb.

“We need to talk,” Billy says, moves Steve’s hand from where it still rests over Billy’s cheek. Their fingers touch; Steve swallows, tries not to hurl all over Billy’s holey tennis shoes. “Parking lot?”

“No,” Steve blurts. Shoving the hair out of his face, he lurches forward and takes Billy by the shoulders, shoving him into the shower wall. Water cascades off Steve’s skin. Another time, and he’ll be ashamed that he’s having this conversation naked. For now, he digs his nails into Billy’s gym shirt, heart in his throat. “You wanna talk, talk, right now. Because I’m not giving you another second if you don’t do it right—”

“I’m sorry, okay?” Billy says, and—that’s not what Steve expected. Head bowed, Billy looks to his shoes, less a teenager and more a small child, ashamed. “Look, I didn’t—I didn’t go there looking for a fight, alright? I had to find Max, and I panicked. I shouldn’t’ve taken it out on you.”

Steve loosens his grip, dropping one hand. They still shake, but quieter now, less volatile. “Did Max put you up to this?” he asks.

Eyes rolled back, Billy leans against the wall. “Wouldn’t let me leave this morning unless I promised.” His shoulders slump. “Doesn’t mean I don’t mean it.”

 _Huh_. Not… exactly what he expected, but better than nothing. “So you’re saying…” Steve starts, testing the words out on his tongue, “that you, Billy Hargrove, are sorry? Mr. No Apologies, No More Mister Nice Guy Billy? The same Billy that—”

“Yeah, that one.” Billy shakes his head, a smile curling over his lips. “Figure we’ve both done our damage. Eye for an eye, and all that.” Sniffling, he crosses his arms. “Are we cool?”

“No,” Steve says, and means it. That night changed them, more for the worse than the better. Nothing about it will ever be right, but they can work on it. Not necessarily start over, but begin to rebuild what little they had. One drunken night in a bathroom of a stranger’s home, and Steve is already gone on him, dug too deep. “But we’ll figure it out. Just… You gotta talk, to me, man. I can’t read your mind, and if something’s going on—”

“Nothing’s going on, alright?” Billy kicks the floor, splashing water onto Steve’s feet. Steve blinks and looks down at himself, utterly aware of how underdressed he is. Thankfully, Billy doesn’t look. _For once_. “I’m just—messed up, and I don’t need to explain myself to you, and I—” He stops, both hands in his hair, looking just as deranged as ever. His gaze lacks the fire Steve has come to know, now rooted solely in fear, in isolation. “Let me have this, okay? Don’t take this away from me—”

Steve shuts him up with a kiss, the only thing he can think to do. Billy tenses, but slowly softens, his hands coming to rest around Steve’s throat and drifting downward, over his shoulders, along his ribs, down to his hips. Every bit of his touch sets Steve alight, and he pins Billy against the slick wall, the back of his shirt no doubt soaking through, but Steve can’t stop himself, can’t keep from raking his fingers through Billy’s curls, from mouthing at his neck until Billy lets out a hiss. Deliberately, Billy palms his ass, fingers creeping right where—

Across the locker room, the door slams open, voices following. Steve springs back and smacks his head on the shower head, while Billy bolts and heads to the lockers, still soaked in sweat and water but apparently more interested in saving face. Meanwhile, Steve berates his traitorous cock and shuts off the tap, reaching for his towel. They can finish this conversation later, then—preferably, someplace drier.

三

As much as Steve wants their relationship to make sense, he can’t ever find a way to describe just how they ended up here, companionable and downright chummy with each other. One minute, Steve is on his back while Billy attempts to Jackson Pollock his face into another dimension, and the next, they’re sitting together at lunch or huddled in the back of study hall, swapping notes and the latest gossip. The latter, mostly from Billy; Steve barely bothers listening to anyone anymore, the drama short-lived, in his opinion.

He just wants to graduate—and making it to the end of June feels like an insurmountable feat, at this rate.

“I’m supposed to be applying for colleges,” Steve mentions one afternoon in the back of the library. Notebooks and pens sprawl across the table while he leans back, the top of his chair butting into a shelf. Billy chews on a pencil, more interested in Steve, apparently, than the homework they’re supposed to be working on. “Dad wants me to try for something in New York, just because he’s got connections and he can fast-track everything. But I don’t wanna? Like, how am I supposed to afford it?”

“They probably piss away that much money in a day,” Billy says, offhand, and turns to flip a page in his textbook. Not that he’s reading. Granted, Steve isn’t really trying either. “College is probably nothing to them.”

Steve huffs, shakes his head. Setting his chair legs down, he leans his elbows on the table, hands in his hair. “Swear, I’m like a status symbol to them. Proof my parents had sex.” He shudders, ignoring Billy’s chuckle. “I’m barely passing any of my classes, man. Dad wants me to try investment banking, but calc is kicking my ass. What am I supposed to do?”

Shrugging, Billy underlines an entire paragraph in his textbook, then rubs his eye. The eye with veins running through it, skin yellowed around the edges. Recent. Steve’s stomach twists. “Ever thought about a gap year? Good enough excuse to take time off. Hell, go bum around Europe, I’m sure you can afford it.”

“ _I_ can’t,” Steve reiterates, drops his head to the table. Billy nudges their shoes together, tangling his toe around the back of Steve’s ankle. “I’m gonna have to start looking for jobs, and that means more applications, and some days I don’t even remember my own name, let alone my social security number.” He sighs, lungs begging for air. “You ever wanna just… drive?”

Billy makes a noise that Steve classifies as a resounding ‘yes,’ but doesn’t bother to follow up on it. “Your folks home tonight?”

Steve rolls his head onto the side, looking at Billy from under the shadow of his bangs. “No, why?” he asks before more decidedly vulgar thoughts creep in. They haven’t really touched since December, haven’t really been behind closed doors long enough to even try . Yet, two months later, Steve craves Billy’s attention, the heat of his hands, that filthy mouth of his spouting off dirty fantasies and even nastier desires.

All of which, apparently Billy wants as well, if his foot running up the inside of Steve’s calf is any indication. “Y’know. Wanna get your grades up, figure you need a tutor. And it just so happens, my schedule’s free this afternoon.” He shoots Steve a _look_ , tongue between his teeth; he plants his foot between Steve’s thighs, his intentions obvious. “What d’ya say, princess?”

 _No_ , Steve’s brain shouts. The rest of him, however, heats with the idea, and Steve hides his face under his arms, cheeks aflame. “Yeah, sure,” he agrees, despite his best interests. Five percent of him believes that Billy’s intentions are pure—the rest goes straight to his cock, and it takes him another five minutes to will down his budding erection, thankfully out of Billy’s sight.

He knows, though—Billy must know, because he stays close for the rest of the day, loitering in the halls between classes and practically riding his ass during practice. The fire between them doesn’t burn out, to Steve’s horror, and it’s a certifiable miracle that they make it out of the locker room without Billy pinning him to the nearest surface. They have to keep up appearances. Rural Indiana doesn’t take kindly to that type of behavior, as much as Steve wants to flaunt Billy and be flaunted at the same time.

They aren’t anything to each other, just casual friends that kissed twice and got off once. It doesn’t mean anything. Still, Steve wants. And judging by Billy’s lingering stares, the feeling must be mutual.

Billy follows him home after practice lets out, riding his bumper despite the clearly open roads. The occasional flurries turn to a full-on snow shower by the time Steve pulls into the driveway, Billy’s Camaro parked alongside him. Tension roils in his gut, not at all unpleasant; his fingers twitch as he sits behind the wheel, looking over at Billy, with Billy watching him in return, a brow lifted in challenge. The front door is only steps away—yet, Steve can’t move, can barely even breathe.

The last time this happened, they were drunk and Steve was still on the rebound, looking for the first warm body he could find. Nancy messed with his head in ways he’s still trying to parse out, and Billy had been there, at first unintentionally, purely as a distraction. As the days go by, though… Steve can’t really tell what his role is, but Billy is _there_ , and that’s what counts. Douchebag or not, Billy at least talks to him, and tries to quell whatever rumors get spread about Steve with his own.

It’s weird. A good weird, but still weird.

But he can’t stay out here forever. Cold seeps through the windows, and all Steve wants is to stay in bed, away from winter’s bitter chill. And Billy’s here—why stay here when he could have both? Sucking in a breath, he makes the decision and bolts from his BMW before Billy can even shut off the engine to the Camaro. Steve fumbles with the lock, but makes it inside before Billy catches him, beating him by two seconds.

And during those two seconds, Steve sheds his coat and heads straight for the staircase. Billy follows and shouts Steve’s name along the way, their laughter intermingling. The chase sends a thrill through Steve, his adrenaline kicking in at the prospect of a hunt. Billy isn’t a threat, though, not this time.

This time, when Billy crowds him against the wall of Steve’s bedroom, there’s no impending violence or malice, all of it replaced with overdue lust and wandering hands. Chaste kisses turn obscene in seconds. Their back packs slide off; somehow, Steve manages to work Billy out of his jacket, denim hitting the floor with a clank and revealing a tank top and miles of warm, bare flesh.

If Billy’s skin felt incredible, then his lips are absolutely divine, soft and plush against his own, tongue tracing the seam and slipping inside. Steve tugs Billy’s hair and moans, swallowing the noises Billy gives him, soft and fluttering, barely there if he weren’t listening for them. At parties, Billy is nothing but performative, playing up his excitement, all for a crowd.

Here, he’s quiet, clingy, and Steve can’t get enough.

“Bed,” Steve says when he pulls away, his grip a vice in Billy’s hair.

Billy’s hands, previously shoved up his shirt, slide away, only to pull Steve away from the wall. Steve lands on the mattress in a sprawl of limbs, and Billy follows, crawling up the length of his body before straddling his hips and dragging him back into a kiss. Amidst the haze of Billy’s warm skin and even more devilish tongue, Steve barely registers the jut of Billy’s cock against his own until they’re rocking together, panting into each other’s mouths between kisses. Steve tugs Billy’s shirt over his head; Billy yanks Steve’s Polo up, lips latching onto a nipple.

It’s better than anything Steve has ever felt, and then some. A car horn ruins all of it, loud and obnoxious and in the third spot in his driveway. “Shit,” Steve groans, and out of reluctance, pushes Billy off of him and onto his back. “My parents are back.”

Billy blinks, frowns. Dawning crosses his face mere seconds after, followed by panic—Steve grabs him before he can open the window and bolt outside. “Dude, chill, it’s fine—”

“I thought you said they were gone,” Billy hisses. He reaches for his shirt lying atop the pillows and pulls it back on, tucking it into his too-tight jeans. He looks good like this, flushed and hard and Steve desperately wishes this wasn’t happening. “Look, I’ve done this dance before, I’ll just—”

“No.” Steve stops him with a hand to Billy’s bare shoulder, digging his nails in just enough to smart. “We came here to study, right? So maybe we’ll just—do that.” _And think about dead kittens or something while I’m at it_. “That cool?”

It takes Billy a moment, but he agrees, shoulders slumping, head bowed. Faintly, he shakes, and Steve pets through his curls, soothing his nerves. “Normally don’t get to meet parents,” Billy says, a blatant lie. Considering the way Nancy’s mom and all the other housewives on the street talk about _That Billy Hargrove_ all the time, Billy’s done his fair share of schmoozing his way into people’s heads.

Hopefully, his own mom will be different. Wishful thinking, though. She didn’t become Miss Nevada for nothing.

四

Hawkins High doesn’t make the playoffs—not even close, actually, considering Steve fractures his ankle halfway through the season and Billy spends a week in the hospital for a supposed _fall_ , which was less of a fall and more of a domestic incident Billy refuses to talk about. But Steve knows, or at least suspects. Max won’t say much more when pressed, and Billy changes the subject entirely whenever the topic comes up, or leaves the room.

Steve doesn’t push—doesn’t want to, either.

The sun breaks through on the first week of March, giving the phys ed coach an ample excuse to get the class outside running laps, rather than circle the basketball court for an hour. The sun feels good on Steve’s skin as he jogs, hair sticking to his head, sweat beading along his hairline. Other classmates with more of a point to prove sprint past him, while he passes a few walkers, mostly girls chatting with their friends while gesturing wildly into the air.

Billy, to his shock, isn’t one of the runners today—and gladly, Steve joins him, giving his ankle a rest. A week with the cast off, and he wonders if they should’ve left it on for another month. Walking backwards, Steve takes in Billy’s face, the blueish skin around his eye, barely larger than a quarter but bearing the faint imprint of a class ring, deeper in the center.

Despite the bruise, Billy grins at him, or tries; his lip wobbles, and Steve spots the gash splitting it down the center; a scab mars it, brown against light pink. “You wanna stay the night?” Steve asks, and without hesitation, Billy nods, desperate to smile. “Hey, guess what channel’s back on the TV in the basement?”

“No kidding,” Billy snorts, batting Steve’s shoulder.

Finding _the channel_ had been an accident, only because Billy was desperate to watch something and Steve hadn’t been paying attention. But once it was on, it stayed there, and Steve couldn’t get Billy off of him for three hours.

Not that he didn’t enjoy it, but the point still stands.

They make it around the final bend of the track oval before Steve catches Billy looking around, presumably to see where their teacher is—missing, as per usual. “C’mon,” Billy says and nods in the direction of the bleachers on the far end of the field. The last time Steve saw them used was when football was still a thing. Now, they serve no purpose other than as a hooky spot, a place to get high between classes.

And, apparently, to make out when no one’s looking. To Steve’s luck, no one else is there when Billy pushes him up against the centermost beam, out of the way of the sun and any onlookers, if anyone came snooping. Typically, Steve lets Billy take the initiative when they sneak away, but today, Billy takes his time, the scab on his lip rough when they kiss. Steve doesn’t push, not like he wants, and rubs small circles into Billy’s nape, feeling him relax, the tremor in his bones easing.

If anything, Steve likes this better. Likes Billy touching him, raking down his front over his tee-shirt, occasionally brushing his knuckles over where he’s half-hard in his gym shorts. And Steve responds in kind, arms around Billy’s waist, sometimes stroking up his naked back, others grabbing handfuls of his ass, just to hear Billy laugh, then moan.

It’s a nice day, Steve thinks, dazed. The sun is high and the air is crisp, cooling the sweat on his skin. He burns hotter when Billy sneaks a hand down the back of his shorts, guiding their hips together. They can’t get off here, but that doesn’t mean they can’t get handsy. No one will know the wiser, if they stop in time.

No one, except for the girl calling Steve’s name from across the field. Steve opens his eyes, mid-kiss, to find Billy glaring at him, blue eyes narrowed in annoyance. A red flush paints Billy’s face, all the way to the tips of his ears. “Swear to God, Harrington—”

“I didn’t do anything,” Steve balks.

Backing up, he runs into the support beam, willing his knees to not give out on him, _not now_. “Christ, is that Nancy?” It has to be Nancy. No one else would be looking for him other than her, especially right now. They broke up in November—why can’t she just let him get on with his life? Or maybe that’s his fault. Billy is occupying a Nancy-shaped hole in his heart, making a home for himself in it, and for once, Steve can’t bother to fight it.

Nor can he fight Billy, currently peeking his head from around the corner of the bleachers. “Yup,” he says, popping the last letter. “Doesn’t look too happy, either.”

“Shit,” Steve groans and falls to his ass. “Think we can explain our way outta this one?”

They don’t have to explain anything, but Steve has to come up with some reason as to where he was. Billy can come up with things on the fly—Steve sucks at lying. “Could always say you had to take a leak,” Billy suggests, blasé as anything. “Though from you? I’m sure she’d believe anything.”

“God.” Steve tilts his head back, careful of the beam. “You ever feel like we’re having too many strikeouts?”

To that, Billy laughs and turns, sauntering back over in those too-tight shorts and nothing else, all golden skinned and like the sun personified. Kneeling, he tips up Steve’s chin and kisses him, and Steve’s eyelids flutter, a whimper caught in his throat. “Much as I’d like to get off with you all the time, this is fun too,” Billy says. Grinning, he grabs Steve’s hands, pulling him up to his feet. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a good kisser?”

Steve snorts and ends up laughing into Billy’s shoulder. “Coming from you? Best compliment I could ever get.”

五

The air feels wrong tonight, like someone opened a gaping wound in the universe and let the world’s evils spill out. Humidity seeps through the open windows of the Hargrove household, and heat bakes everything it touches, even in the dead of night. Billy’s gown slips off his shoulders and puddles onto the floor of his room, his cap long gone, probably left in the backseat of the Camaro. Steve left his in the BMW, parked back at home, where Billy told him to leave it, supposedly to avoid suspicion.

Whatever reason it is, Steve doesn’t plan on finding out.

Billy kisses him with salt on his lips, desperate and hungry, and Steve gives him everything he has, tugging his hair by the root, a knee between Billy’s thighs. Billy backs into the wall, and Steve follows, angling Billy just right, and Billy moans, breathy and near-silent. Whatever is happening here, Steve doesn’t question it, just stays as quiet as he can while Billy ruts against his thigh, clinging to Steve like a lifeline.

No one came to see Billy graduate, not even Max. Against her will, Billy told him. His dad apparently made it a point to take both Max and Billy’s step-mom out of town for the night, leaving Billy to walk across the stage in front of a crowd of strangers. Steve’s dad didn’t bother to show, but his mom waved at the both of them, and hugged Billy as soon as the ceremony ended. “No one should have to go through this alone,” she’d told Billy, and he thanked her, but Steve saw him as he drove away, the sadness in his eyes, the guilt that Steve could never place, but always understood, somewhere in his heart.

Now, alone and in the dark, Billy cries, soundless, and holds onto Steve, struggling to replace his despair with something more carnal. “Fuck me,” Billy begs, breathless, and tugs at Steve’s hair while Steve undoes the snaps on Billy’s button-down. “Should’ve let you fuck me months ago—”

“Shh.” Steve silences him with another kiss, yanks Billy’s shirt out of his pants. Pulling off, he mouths a string of kisses up Billy’s throat, flushing even deeper when Billy moans, hissing through his teeth. “C’mon, over here—”

A truck pulling into the driveway sets off every alarm in Steve’s head. Billy stops breathing, eyes wide and panicked. “You gotta go,” Billy says, frantic. Steve knows what this means, even if Billy never told him. What his dad being home means, what Steve _being_ here means. “You gotta get outta here—”

“Come with me,” Steve says, a last ditch effort. If Billy could come with him, then maybe they could get out of this town, run off into the proverbial sunset together. Whatever this is between them, it means something—has meant something for the last few months. But Billy shakes his head, shoves Steve toward the window. “Come on, we could go to—Where’re you from again, California? We could go there, get away from your—your dad—”

“Just—Steve, go, just go,” Billy hisses, louder now. Voices echo through the walls; Billy jerks the window open, revealing a few-foot drop into the hedges. “I’ll explain everything, okay? Just get out of here, Harrington—”

Steve panics, grabs for Billy’s shoulder. “Wait—”

“Steve, _go_ ,” he says, just as the lock to the front door gives. Billy spares a parting kiss, quick and barely there, before he pushes Steve backward. “Please.”

As much as he wants to, Steve doesn’t look back. Tries not to listen to the voices, to his own breaths, to his footsteps when he heads straight into the woods, into where his nightmares reside. All he has to do is get home, and everything will be fine. Tomorrow will be another day, and he’ll see Billy again. The world will go on.

With all his heart, he hopes the sun rises.

プラス一

Starcourt collapses. All that remains is an empty patch of concrete, and nothing else.

Some nights, Steve lies awake in bed thinking about it, trying to piece together just what happened. Trying to understand how the gate opened back up, how the Mind Flayer ran rampant and took a good chunk the town with it. The city council plans to dedicate a monument to all those that went missing during the blaze. Eleven and Will are moving out of state in a few months. The chief of police is dead.

Yet, everyone has moved on, everyone except Steve. He still can’t quite feel the skin around his eye, and his jaw makes a noise whenever he opens his mouth too wide. Robin jumps whenever someone drops a tape; Steve hides in the back, sometimes, and breathes into a paper bag until his heart stops feeling like it might jump out of his chest. They’re _fine_. Just like everyone else is fine, and apparently happy to go on with their day, like the Soviets didn’t build an bunker underneath the mall, like a monster didn't try to devour every single human that came across its path.

Like Billy hasn't been in the hospital hooked up to a ventilator for a month.

The minute Nurse Kelly calls to tell him that Billy is awake and breathing on his own, Steve takes the rest of the afternoon off and drives to Hawkins Memorial with shaking hands. Loath as he is to admit it, he’s spent more evenings in Billy’s room than he can count, just staying by his side, waiting for the one moment where Billy finally woke up. Billy never did, and his heart monitor trudged on.

But now, in the middle of August, Billy is finally awake, and well enough to be off the ventilator.

Nurse Kelly leads him to the third floor like every other time, her clipboard in hand. It’s probably time for her to do her rounds anyway. Visiting hours ended two hours ago, but Kelly has always made an exception for him, considering that Steve is Billy’s only visitor. Max came a few times, but she could never quite shake the grief of seeing him in that bed, alone and frail, and so very dead-but-alive. Depending on how today goes, Steve will bring her back—because like hell will her parents even try.

“Mr. Hargrove,” Kelly says as she knocks, then opens the door.

Steve follows after, hesitant. He’s been here dozens of times, but seeing Billy never fails to stop his heart. Though, this time, for an entirely different reason. As Kelly does her rounds, Steve watches from the doorway, careful to keep out of the way; Billy looks back in return, blue eyes glassy, lips chapped. He pulls his gown tighter over his chest, obscuring the scars Steve knows are there, the marks that’ll never quite fade.

“You can stay the night again,” Kelly says, low, “but remember, if you see anything suspicious, just call the nurse’s station.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, and waves as she leaves, closing the door behind her.

He doesn’t speak again until he pulls up a seat at Billy’s side. Billy’s eyes follow him the entire time, bandaged hands in his lap, a pillow propped up behind his head. He looks exhausted—probably feels even worse, if his breathing is any indication. Kelly gave him a fresh IV, presumably filled with enough painkillers to knock out a horse.

“Hey,” Billy says after a while, voice absolutely shot.

Steve swallows the lump in his throat, and takes Billy’s hand when Billy offers. Just barely, Steve can feel warmth in his fingertips, so familiar and all he’s wanted for months. Life changed the day of graduation; Steve applied for a job at Scoops, and Billy got hired on as a lifeguard, and the world seemed intent to keep them apart, until Steve rammed into the Camaro. Until Steve saw Billy die, and the paramedics revived what was left of him.

In all honesty, he never thought he’d see Billy again, especially alive. “Hey,” Steve says, offering what he hopes is a smile. “How’re you feeling?”

“Fantastic,” Billy says, sounding completely sincere. “Got me on the good stuff, baby. Feel like I’m on a cloud.”

Steve can’t help but laugh, pressing Billy’s fingers to his lips. “Don’t stay up there too long, or I won’t be able to find you.”

Billy laughs at that, eventually wincing. Lightly, he pats his chest, over the bandages Steve can see peeking through the gaps in his gown. “’m gonna be messed up,” he admits. He wiggles his fingers in Steve’s hand, and Steve holds him tighter, lip between his teeth. “Head's gonna be fucked up, Stevie. Not gonna love me when I’m… pissed all the time. Gonna be pissed.”

“I know,” Steve sighs. Heart in his throat, he stands and, still holding Billy’s hand, cradles his face with the other, feels Billy’s jaw tense, then slacken. “Just tell me what you need, and I’ll be here.”

Without a tune, Billy hums and turns into Steve’s hand, mouthing at his thumb. _Jesus, he’s out of it_. “You love me, pretty boy? Heard you sometimes, always cryin’ over me.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Steve says, but laughs anyway, fighting off the wetness in his eyes. “Think we should talk about this when you’re not high.”

“Not high,” Billy slurs, lips twisting into a grin. “Had better pot than this. Remember Lucy’s party?”

God, does he. “Yeah, and we ended up on the roof,” Steve says. He wipes his eyes, right before the dam in his chest breaks. A sob rips free, startling Billy into attempting to sit up, before his stitches pull. A months’ worth of anguish rushes free, and Steve draws Billy into a lopsided hug, wet eyes pressed to the curve of his throat. Even worse, is when Billy draws an arm around his back, holding him closer. “You died, you ass.”

“I died,” Billy affirms. He presses a kiss to Steve’s temple. “But I came back. I’m like… Jesus, or somethin’.”

“Yeah, Jesus with a mullet,” Steve laughs, brittle. Pulling back, he palms Billy’s cheeks, swiping away the tears gathering in the corners of Billy’s eyes. His chin wobbles—he can barely look at Billy, not anymore. “The night of graduation, I wanted to tell you. And I shouldn’t, because you’re a total dick, but I—I actually love you, and it’s kinda freaking me out. And then you died—”

“But I’m not dead.” Billy pats Steve’s face, fingers curling limply around a loose strand of hair. “Flesh wound.”

“God,” Steve groans, laughing despite himself. “Just—I’m messed up too, y’know? There’s shit you don't know about, but if I’m gonna handle your baggage, you’re gonna have to take mine, okay?”

Billy nods, tugs on Steve’s hair. “Got plenty of room,” he says. “Wanna go drive, when I get outta here? C’mon, gimme somethin’ to look forward to.”

“Us,” Steve corrects. “Us to look forward to.” _We have time_ , he thinks. _We’re free now_.

“Drive away with me?” Billy asks.

Rather than reply, Steve kisses him, chapped lips and all, and impossibly, Billy’s grin grows wider. Fingers tangle in Steve’s hair. Foreheads touching, Steve takes Billy’s hand again.

Blissfully, no one walks in. Steve, for once, takes it as a win.

**Author's Note:**

> It took me a while, but I finally finished this! I actually intended for it to be filthier than this, but it came out sappy and I love it anyways. I MIGHT have a second one coming, but I'm not entirely sure right now, so maybe stay tuned!
> 
> In other news, I'm working on a new book (because I'm procrastinating on my other ones) so that's why I've been sporadic with posting lately. Also, I'm running out of things to write unless people throw ideas at me OTL. 
> 
> Title is from the Dixie Chicks song, "Voice Inside My Head".
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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